


So came his reply: "But on the desk is where I want you"

by quietwandering



Category: Morrissey (Musician), The Smiths
Genre: M/M, Teacher/Student Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24926329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietwandering/pseuds/quietwandering
Summary: Bring me home and have me
Relationships: Johnny Marr/Morrissey
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	So came his reply: "But on the desk is where I want you"

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing so many fics at the same time, and then I started this one out of the blue and couldn't stop. I'd had this idea for a while, with a bit more of an angsty angle (Moz hating himself for wanting something like this, basically), but I think the tone of this one worked out better. 
> 
> As always, sorry if I edit something out or in. 
> 
> Title is [Alsatian Cousin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RHT4AFfZB24) by Morrissey

I picked at the black polish on my thumbnail as Morrissey came shuffling back into the study, jotter in tow. I was leaned against the desk in what I hoped was a casual way while he stood in the doorway with an unreadable expression, those outlandish eyebrows of his bent down in thought. It was nearly a month ago all this had started between us, with a postcard dropped in my letterbox at far too early an hour. On one side was a bland photo of some crumbling cathedral, and on the back was his blocky scrawl over the torn out page of some awful romance novel, intimately detailing the lurid affair between a shy student and his handsome teacher. _My place, or yours_? 

As much as I wanted to believe otherwise, this wasn’t an impulsive decision, this hadn’t happened because I was forced into it. There had been time for me to find an excuse, a reason, anything to not go through with this, but I had showed up at his doorstep regardless. “Johnny?” Morrissey was stood close to me now, inches away, and I could feel my heart trying to pound out of my chest. “Did you change your mind?”

“No,” I said, voice too high. I cleared my throat and started again. “No, I’m alright.” 

Morrissey’s fingers brushed down the side of my face, cooling my burning skin. “This was too much to ask of you." His lips gently pressed against my forehead and along the bridge of my nose. “You should just head home.”

“Well." I paused to try and find the right words, forcing myself to not shy away. "I wouldn't've of shown up wearing this god awful getup if I hadn’t wanted to at least try this with you. I look like a right prat.” 

“No, not at all. In fact, I'd say you’ve never looked better.” Morrissey pressed a kiss into my cheek, giggling. To no one's surprise, I didn't have to put in much effort to look like a surly teenager. I was in my old St. Augistine’s blazer with some fitted slacks and a hideous tie. For added effect, I'd put on an absurd amount of eyeliner, which had been my 'style' at that age (the reality was that I just didn't know to properly apply it). “Should we…”

I nodded and silently reminded myself that there were plenty of reasons I’d agreed to this. They were all just slipping away from me now that I was faced with the reality of the situation. “Take a seat then,” Morrissey instructed, stepping back.

Moz sat down behind his desk in an office chair while I sat in a kitchen chair opposite him. We usually didn’t allow for this much distance between us, especially in private, so it was a little disconcerting already. We always sat together while we wrote songs or worked in the studio. We were always in arms reach of one another if we went out anywhere - even in interviews we were almost always side by side. 

We sat in silence for a long while. I'd lit a cigarette to keep myself calm, and my occasional drags on it mixed soothingly with the soft scratch of Morrissey's pen against his notebook. While all this seemed outlandish, ludicrous even, I knew that this would give closure to Moz more than anything else. The sexual side of it was just a bonus. This game would serve as a way for us to safely and pleasurably re-imagine all the horrid experiences we'd gone through back then. 

I was shaken from my thoughts when Morrissey set his pen down and looked up at me. I tried to look suitably demure, slouched over with my eyes hidden behind my fringe. “Put that out,” Morrissey said. The soft edge that usually rounded out his tone towards me was entirely gone, and the nervous swipe of his tongue across his lips made me feel warm all over. “We don’t tolerate that behavior here.” 

The scene now rested on my shoulders, and I quickly thought over my options. Was there a wrong choice to make here? A right one? I didn't know. So I decided to flip him off and stub my cigarette on the side of the desk. “Piss off,” I said with a contemptuous roll of my eyes, containing a laugh at how many times I had wanted to say that to him before. A rush of excitement went through me at the realization that I didn't need to tamp down that petulant side of me right now, that I didn't have to hold anything back for the sake of being polite.

Morrissey stood up with a serious look of disapproval and slammed his palm down on the desk in warning. I slumped further into my chair with a loud sigh. “This... _school_ \--” Morrissey’s mouth twitched tellingly as he stared down at me, and I lifted a brow towards him in answer. “You know why you’ve been called down here, John?” 

The shortened sound of my name made me feel off balance, and I paused to think up a clever enough response. “Cuz this place is full of old codgers that get their rocks off beating up the kiddies?” 

A smile slipped through Moz’s stern stare, and I shot one back, kicking my legs up on the desk. “According to my book, we’re meant to be taking all this quite seriously,” Morrissey said with a huff, rubbing his eyes. I had wondered why he chose contacts instead of glasses. Maybe because we were meant to end up naked at the end of all this. “You’ve got to play along for this to work, Johnny.” 

“Don’t really have a script, do I? I'm just makin’ it up as we go.” 

“Right, right,” Morrissey said softly, the familiar tone back. “Let’s try again.” 

I straightened myself up and went for another cigarette. This time Morrissey came round the desk to grab my wrist and pull it back to an almost painful degree. I distantly realized that I didn't mind the pain, I maybe even enjoyed it. “What did I just say, John Maher?” 

“Dunno, I’m hard of hearing at my age. From all the rock n’ roll, you see,” I replied bluntly. I’d never spoken to a secondary teacher this way, I’d have been expelled if I had, but I found myself needing to exaggerate the persona I was putting on. “Us rebellious teens have to let loose somehow.” 

“Stand up,” Morrissey said, and with a hard yank on my arm I had little choice but to comply. I stumbled to my feet before I was immediately toppled over the desk, my arse now conveniently on display. “This school can’t allow for such degeneracy. Pull your trousers down.” 

I forced myself to remember this was a game, that secondary school was in the distant past. I could stop this any time I wanted, I could walk away. All the times my palms were lashed bloody for the slightest wrong, real or imagined -- that was over. I had as much control here as Moz.

Reassured, I pulled at the zip of my trousers and eased them down my hips, leaving my boxers up as I would have at school. For a while, there was just silence as I was looked over, inspected, and a titillating sense of humiliation bubbled up inside me. I heard the light, familiar _woosh_ of a cane somewhere behind me, and I valiantly kept myself from scrambling off the desk in terror. 

I jumped when I felt Morrissey’s hand on my lower back, but I could tell the touch was meant to calm me, not scare me. He rubbed small, soothing circles up my spine for a few minutes, and I began to slowly relax. This was just sex with extra steps, I reminded myself, nothing here was _that_ serious. “Hands up, hold onto the edge of the desk,” Morrissey asked, and I quickly complied. 

The cane slid along both sides of my thighs, and I had to imagine Moz was indulging himself more than playing into his role. I lifted my hips appreciatively and moaned into the side of my arm, shifting restlessly as the tension built between my legs. My cock wasn’t too interested in what was happening yet, but that was definitely about to change.

“Five lashes for the cigarette, five lashes for your inappropriate remarks.” I nodded. “Count them.” That seemed an easy enough task until I felt the first three make contact with my backside. Then I suddenly couldn’t remember my own name, and Morrissey’s fingers were in my hair, forcing my head back. “ _Count_ them, John Maher.”

“One, two, three, sir,” I breathed, blinking away the sweat that was suddenly pouring into my eyes. I wasn’t sure why I'd added the _sir_ at the end. Perhaps because that's how I'd talk to an actual teacher or headmaster. Moz made a low, pleased noise in response to it so I didn't feel too bad about it slipping out either.

“Good,” Morrissey said, close to my ear, before he let go and stepped back to get some more distance. The next three were on the other side, and my fingernails dug into the wood of the desk, thoughts rushing around too fast inside my head. Pain, pleasure. Pleasure _and_ pain. It was so much to take in. “Maher?”

“Three, four, six, sir,” I gasped, straining to spread my legs further apart. My trousers were tangled around my knees, and I couldn’t free myself from them without letting go of the desk. My heart was slamming painfully against the inside of my chest, like I’d snorted too much coke before a gig. “Oh, _fuck_ , Mozzer.” 

I kicked the desk as another lash landed on my bare thigh, just below my boxers, with a matching blow on the opposite side. “If you continue on like that it’ll be eleven lashes,” Morrissey said, voice rough with arousal.

I bit my lip to quiet myself down before I mumbled out the next numbers, “Seven...and eight, sir.” 

Without warning, Moz tugged my boxers down, and I choked back a sob as my cock touched the cold surface of the desk. The contrast to the heat pooled between my legs was almost too much, but even that seemed inconsequential to the feeling of the cane against my bare arse. The pain was now sharper, almost brutal, and it sent shockwaves of arousal through me. 

I’d hardly said the last two numbers before I was pulled onto my back, legs spread wantonly. There was a fresh flush of shame that went through me as Morrissey looked me over. I couldn’t imagine how indecent I looked with my cock twitching against my stomach, my trousers shoved down. My hips were canted away from the desk so that my behind didn’t have to press against it, but it it must have undoubtedly looked like I was silently begging to be fucked - which wasn't too far from the truth. “Johnny --” 

I pushed myself up and backed Moz into the chair I’d been in earlier, straddling his lap. The touch of our lips was electric. I impatiently pressed my tongue to the seam of his lips until I was allowed in and indulged myself in the taste of him. He’d had an herbal tea today, not black, and I suspected it was peppermint when I licked along the inside of his cheek. 

Desperate, I began to rock myself along his chest, soaking the white button down he wore, and ran my mouth down along his jaw, his neck, and the bit of his collarbone I could see. I wanted more than this, wanted him inside of me, but I couldn’t stop myself, tangling my fingers into the back of his hair for leverage. “Fuckin’ touch me already,” I murmured, pushing his hand between us.

A soft _tsk_ had my eyes blinking open in confusion, chest heaving with exertion. I saw Moz’s head was at a slight tilt, a mischievous look on his face. “Isn’t the teacher the one who sets the rules?” I was tired of the game and impatiently tried to move his hand, but he only squeezed at the base of my shaft, numbing my arousal. “The taking and not giving?” 

“I don’t bloody care,” I whispered, shaking off my blazer to ease the heat of my body a little. Morrissey’s thumb dug into the slit of my cock reproachfully, brows drawn down in warning, and I suddenly decided to play along a little longer. “Please, _sir._ Please touch me.” 

An appreciative smile lit up Morrissey’s face, and I was rewarded with a few agonizingly slow strokes. “Hm, that seems better. Do you think you’ve learned a lesson today, John?” I wasn’t sure how to respond. My throat was too dry, I was too hot to think of anything useful to say, and I rolled my hips in hope it'd convey something, _anything_ really, moaning in frustration. “On your knees now. Show me just how much you enjoyed learning to behave yourself today.” 

There was a pressure on my shoulder, and I doggedly let myself sink to the floor, pulling on the fly of Morrissey’s slacks. They were the most formal thing I’d seen him wear since my wedding. I struggled to pull his cock out for a moment but Moz thankfully tipped his hips enough that I could get everything tugged down. At first I tried to keep myself paced, pulling the tip in and teasing my tongue along the underside, but I felt the pain of my backside flare up and began to suck harder, my hand pulling the rest of his shaft with the slight bit of spit that had leaked out from my mouth. 

I was relieved to see Moz’s head tilt back, feel his fingers push through my hair, and I knew he was already near his climax. I scratched along the lower parts of his stomach, between the dip of his ribs, and purposefully dug my thumb into those sensitive areas that always made him squirm. Before long, his cock began to spasm, his balls tightening up tellingly, and I leaned back to watch him come, eyes darting up to Moz’s own as his come sprayed across my swollen lips and outstretched tongue. 

Clambering back up into his lap, I was finally, _finally_ given my own release with just a few rough strokes of Moz’s hand, and I was sure there were tears of relief in my eyes from the way they stung. That, or a string of jizz had gotten into them. It wouldn’t be the first time. “ _Fuck_ , fuck. _Touch_ me. Bloody hell, touch me, _please._ ” I tore at Morrissey’s shirt, ripped the buttons away, and leaned in to bite at his shoulder, shuddering hard enough I thought the chair might give way. 

“That’s it,” Morrissey whispered against the curve of my ear, sighing. “That’s perfect, Johnny.” 

I wasn’t entirely sure how I managed to get into Moz’s bed from that point. There wasn’t a chance I could’ve walked there, not with how out of it I was, so I guess Morrissey must have carried me. Because when I was finally able to take in my surroundings again, there were warm blankets all around me and Moz was stretched out next to me with his head on my shoulder. “Hey,” I tried, but my voice seemed like it was out of commission for a while. 

Morrissey stretched over to the nightstand and insistently pushed a warm cup of tea into my hands. I could only nod in appreciation. “Thank you,” Moz whispered, pressing a chaste kiss against my temple. I turned to touch our lips together properly, trying to say a silent _thank you_ of my own, but Moz pulled away only moments later to yawn. This close together I could see he’d taken out his contacts. “Hm, can we pick this up again tomorrow morning?” 

“You got it.” 


End file.
